


cuentos de amor y de muerte

by the bloodsucking brady bunch (Ejunkiet)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, Gen, One Shot Collection, Post s1e09, a blend of book and tv show canon, post-S2E04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/the%20bloodsucking%20brady%20bunch
Summary: One. Unlike some of his kind, Raphael Santiago is not sentimental about death.Two. Raphael looks satisfied as he places the bag on the mantle, before raising his hand to his mouth to lick the nail clean. Simon watches him, unable to look away.Three. It’s been about ten minutes since they hit the streets of New York and neither of them have spoken since they left Magnus’ apartment.





	1. the deaths of Raphael Santiago

**Author's Note:**

> A character exploration of Raphael Santiago and Simon Lewis, with a smattering of book and tv canon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A portrait of Raphael Santiago.
> 
> Later, when Magnus Bane finds him curled around the remains of his past life, and he springs for that same light, _aches_ for it and the final release it will bring from all this, he’s reminded of why he can’t let go.

Unlike some of his kind, Raphael Santiago is not sentimental about death.

To become vampire is to become familiar with death. It surrounds him, sustains him; the lives of others flows through his veins and the sacramental bread tastes likes ashes on his tongue.

The lives of the mundane are fleeting, and even the foundations of cities rust and erode with time, falling into disrepair and decay.

He’s the only constant, immaculate and unchanged.

But that wasn't always the case.

He doesn't often think about his former life. That boy is dead, and has been for over half a century.

\--

His first death had been brief and violent, and even now, after all these years, he can only remember fragments of it.

He was young, the fire in his blood making him rash, although he'd been old enough to know better. His friends were young too and when the moment came, they'd died together, their bodies shattered like poorly made toys by a creature far older and powerful than they could have imagined.

It had been easy, too easy, to let go. To let the chain of his mother’s cross slip through his fingers as the sharp points of fangs had torn through his throat. He hadn’t known better to resist when the hot, salty taste of blood had smeared against his lips, and a set of brilliant blue, mesmerising eyes had instructed him to drink.

He’d known better when he’d risen and the light of the day had burned his eyes, and the name of god choked in his throat. When the monster across from him had offered him a body - Antonio, barely eighteen, fresh-faced and brave and _strong_ , a few shorts months away from attending college on a scholarship - he’d utilised the pain and confusion to act and put an end to it, using his new-found strength to thrust his sire into the light.

Later, when Magnus Bane finds him curled around the remains of his past life, and he springs for that same light, _aches_ for it and the final release it will bring from all this, he’s reminded of why he can’t let go.

“Your mother sent me to save you.”

His skin blisters when Magnus hands over the simple gold chain and cross. He'll wear it for the rest of his mother’s life.

“You didn’t.”

\--

His second death, in contrast, is slow; a lingering decay drawn out over the decades, long past the lives of his mortal family.

It was something he’d never thought to consider, before: the stretch of time and what meaning could be derived from it. Before his first death, he would have considered it a life, but now that he was undead, the term was inappropriate.

It’s been nearly seven decades, and he still doesn’t have an answer.

He loses his brothers, one by one, to the lush forests of Vietnam, casualties of a war that nobody understands. His mother passes in her own bed at the age of seventy one. She’d left this world with the knowledge that she has outlived all but one of her sons, blissfully ignorant of the truth behind the gift of immortality.

He preferred it that way - for her to dream of an afterlife where she could be reunited with all of her family. It had given her some semblance of peace in the end, eased the burden of her cancer and the pain that laid waste to her body, until she finally faded away into nothing.

She’d made all the necessary arrangements, even going as far to request a midnight service for the rite of committal. Members of the Clan make an appearance, out of respect for him and all he has done for them, and even the warlock Magnus Bane attends to pay his respects, accompanied by Ragnor Fell, glamoured to pass as a mundane.

He murmurs the name of god in a litany of prayer and doesn’t stumble once. Blood doesn’t stain his cheeks, although it will later, briefly, when they’ve returned to the Dumort and he’s locked the door to his rooms, and he’s finally alone, _alone_ , undead and alone.

He would have liked to join her.

His second death doesn’t let him.

It drags on through the dawn of the new millennium and the creation of a new breed of monster, parts demon and angel and human combined that threatens to destroy everything he’s worked to create over the last sixty years. It brings with it new faces and new victims caught in the crossfire, new vampires fledged too young to really come to terms with their new reality and the danger that accompanies it.

And at the end of it all, he realises that he’s come full circle. As here is Magnus Bane, simultaneously his saviour and the man who had consigned him to _this_ – this un-life, this second death, this endless march of years and years – and he’s been given a choice.

Use the knife or take the light.

He takes the light.


	2. the un-death of Simon Lewis, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raphael looks satisfied as he places the bag on the mantle, before raising his hand to his mouth to lick his nail clean. Simon watches him, unable to look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set during the aftermath of Shadowhunters 1x09.

"Welcome home."  
  
Welcome home. The way Raphael says it - like it's a promise, a pledge to spend eternity in this place - this _mausoleum_ \- sits heavily in the air between them. It's hard to swallow, and he feels sick, although whether that's from the nerves settling in his stomach or a lingering side effect of the Hunger, he's not sure.  
  
"Well, it's not like I had much of a choice."    
  
He turns just in time to see the amusement in Raphael's expression before he glances away, folding his arms across his chest and Simon gets distracted by the soft sound of creaking leather, the slight rustle of his expensive designer clothing. He can hear the muted sound of footsteps on the other floors of the hotel, the quiet murmur of conversation an entire block away -- and he has to take a moment, take a breath and hold it until he can regain control of his senses.  
  
Raphael watches him, quiet, his eyes dark and unreadable. He waits until he's let out the breath he's holding before he speaks again, his voice low and soft, almost sympathetic.  
  
"It'll take a while to get used to the changes."  
  
Simon meets his gaze and holds it, his jaw tight. Raphael doesn't look away.  
  
There's a long pause before either one of them breaks. Simon glares angrily at a section of scuffed floor. Nothing about this was fair.  
  
The sounds outside the hotel fade, the last lingering echo of footsteps receding until he can be certain that Clary is gone. He doesn't think about where that leaves him, just takes a steadying breath and lets his eyes find Raphael again.  
  
What happens now, he wants to ask, but doesn't. It feels too much like acceptance - surrender, and he's not ready for that, yet.

Instead he gestures half-heartedly towards Raphael and says, "I'm sorry about your jacket. Jackets, plural. I don't have a vendetta against them, I swear.”  
  
If Raphael is caught off guard by the non-sequitur then he doesn't show it in anything more than a raised brow and a slight twitch of his lips.

“No es nada.”

A few moments pass before Raphael gets to his feet. Smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket, he glances at the shuttered window before turning to face Simon.

“Come. It is late, the sun will be up soon. We have prepared a room for you.”

\--  
  
The Hotel Dumort may have once been a grand hotel, but it was clear from the offset that that was no longer the case, and hadn't been for quite some time. While the upper floors showed signs of restoration and renovation, modern amenities tucked away amongst gothic mouldings, the bulk of the interior was on the edge of falling apart.  
  
They travel down deep into the underbelly of the hotel, passing through a series of elaborately decorated rooms, and it quickly becomes clear that this is the true home of the vampires, not the crumbling mansion that squats heavily above them.  
  
Raphael doesn't speak as he leads them on a winding route, his pace unrelenting as he takes them through what looks to be a series of rec rooms and libraries - and these will be the first places he visits, if he can ever find them again. It's almost labyrinthine down here, which, he supposes, is the point.  
  
"This place is a lot bigger than I thought it would be,” he says to break the silence as they descend another level. It’s quieter here, the sounds of the world above them muffled by metres of earth, and he can tell that the temperature has dropped several degrees, although he doesn't feel it.

Raphael doesn’t dignify his observation with a reply and Simon bites the inside of his cheek to refrain from saying something sarcastic to antagonise him further. Instead, he focuses on familiarizing himself with his new senses and what they're telling him; the heavy, rich smell of the earth around them and the details he can make out in the corridor despite the dim lighting. There’s a marked improvement in his senses from even a few hours earlier, and he can sense the creatures that live in the soil beyond these walls, the flicker of life that filters down from the surface.

It's then that he feels it. Something else- something bigger.

At first he tries to dismiss it, but as they descend further, the feeling only grows, until he finally reaches out a hand and catches the hem of Raphael’s jacket, pulling him to a stop.

At the unspoken question in Raphael’s gaze, Simon gestures towards the wall beside them, his voice soft as he asks, “What is that?”

Raphael follows Simon’s sightline towards the wall, his dark eyes calm, considering, before he glances back to meet Simon’s gaze.

“It's the clan.”

Simon can feel them through the walls. It's an intangible thing, a knowledge that isn't tied to any of his physical senses, at least not in any way that makes sense.

“That's incredible.”

“Our shared blood calls to us, connects us. We can always feel each other. It's why family is important.” He pauses, glancing back to catch Simon’s gaze, holds it. “That’s something you should remember.”

\--

A little while later, Raphael draws them to a stop in front of a series of nondescript rooms.

"Simon."  
  
Simon glances back up from his examination of the walls to find Raphael watching him, the corners of his mouth quirked in a small smile before he pushes himself off the wall and gestures towards the next corridor.  
  
"These rooms are yours."  
  
There are at least three doors in this hallway, and Simon doesn't need to use his heightened senses to see that these rooms haven't been occupied in quite some time: the air is heavy with the smell of disuse, dust and books and old carpet. From the look of it, he’d guess that this area of the hotel had been built in seventies, although there was evidence that it'd been partially renovated recently, a few modern appliances poking out awkwardly amidst the dedicatedly themed decor.

It was charming in its own way, if you liked garish orange trimming and cheap vinyl.

He blinks as Raphael flicks on a light switch, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the change. He realises then that they'd been standing in darkness; had been for god knows how long, and that knowledge sits uneasily in his gut, bringing home the point that this is his new reality. This is who he is now: he has been changed, and there's no going back.

“Simon,” Raphael says again, patient, and he turns back to watch as Raphael taps a section of stylised vinyl paneling, revealing a slight indentation that depresses, folding back to reveal a storage cooler filled with bags of -

Bags of blood.

Simon swallows thickly as Raphael retrieves a bag of blood and holds it out to him, feeling the sharp points of his teeth against his tongue, the tight clench of his throat.

When he glances back to Raphael, he finds his dark gaze on him again, waiting. When he’s catches his eye, he uses a nail to puncture the seal of the bag. The heavy metal scent of blood hits him like a truck, and his gums itch as his fangs drop down, biting into his lower lip.

Raphael looks satisfied as he places the bag on the mantle, before raising his hand to his mouth to lick the nail clean. Simon watches him, unable to look away. “Finish the bag. You need to keep your strength up, especially during these first few months.”

Simon swallows hard and glances away. He feels sick to his stomach at the thought of feeding like that, but he's also so  _hungry_.

A sigh comes from across the room, as if Raphael can tell what he’s thinking, but he says nothing, taking his hand from the wall and turning to leave. He crosses the room with a speed that would have been impossible for Simon to track of if he’d still been human - _was_ being the operative word here.

At the last second, Raphael pauses, hands on the doorframe, head bowed, before he turns back. His expression is unreadable but when he speaks again, his voice is softer, almost gentle.

"If it's any consolation, you made the right decision, to come here. For all involved."

Before Simon can think of a response to that, Raphael is gone, and he's left alone with his thoughts and the bag. The scent of blood is still heavy in the air, and after a moment, he crosses the room and sinks his teeth into the plastic.


	3. the un-death of Simon Lewis, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-season two episode four, missing scene.

It’s been about ten minutes since they hit the streets of New York and neither of them have spoken since they left Magnus’ apartment. The address he'd given them is on the other side of the city, and with dawn a few short hours away, they’d taken off at a run, utilising their supernatural speed until the cityscape was little more than a blur around them, smudges of lights and colour, the details vague and indistinct like the heavy brushstrokes of an impressionist painting.

The tension in the air is thick enough for Simon to choke on, if he had any use for breathing anymore, and all he can focus on is the energy buzzing through his veins, the anger, fuelled by an undercurrent of fear.

He hates it.

He feels like a tightly wound spring, coiled and straining for release, all pent-up emotion and shackled energy with no place to go. He wants - no, _needs_ , to - act, to step up, for once, and confront this, the unspoken accusations that hang in the air between them, the lingering threat that hovers over his family.

He stops, finally, on the fringes of the warehouse district, right where the docks meet the water. It takes Raphael less than a fraction of a second to check his pace, appearing abruptly in front of Simon, a shadow dressed in black.

His voice is low and dangerous when he asks, “why did you stop?”

He’s just that bit too close to Simon’s personal space as he glances him over, his eyes dark and narrow in the low lights of the loading docks, and that, if anything, is nearly enough to push Simon over the edge. He takes a sharp breath, holding it, pushing down the emotions rising beneath the surface as he sets his stance.

“We need to talk.”

Raphael holds Simon’s gaze for a long moment before glancing away towards the water. His voice is quiet, controlled when he says, “I don’t think so.”

Simon tightens his jaw, clenching down as he fights back the itch of his fangs.

“I don't give a _damn_ what you think. I did what you asked, Raphael - I helped you, even when you threatened me, threatened my _family_.” He’s quivering, he knows that, can see the tremors that run through his limbs. “That’s it. This - whatever it is - is over. We’re even.”

Raphael is quiet throughout his outburst, his eyes dark and unreadable as he waits for him to finish, although the tick in his jaw and the flex of his hands belie his calm.

“You think we’re even?” His lips twitch into a smirk, but there is no trace of humour in his expression. “You’ve maybe helped fix your mistakes, but you’ve yet to pay for them. You betrayed my trust, the clan’s. We don’t take that lightly.”

This was such – bullshit.

“Don’t make this about your g-uh” he forgets himself for a moment and finds himself choking on the word, breathless as he forges on ahead regardless, “-forsaken war with the Clave. Camille was our only chance of stopping Valentine. I did what I had to do.”

“Do you have any idea of the consequences of your actions? How many we’ve lost because of what you did?”

Simon glances at the scar that is seared into Raphael’s temple like a bloody brand and feels his resolve firm.

“I did what had to be done.”

Raphael’s eyes flash, before he moves, and Simon finds himself pressed against a wall two feet away, the hard line of Raphael’s forearm against his throat. It’s a move he should have seen coming, a voice that sounds annoyingly like Magnus remarks from the corner of his mind.

Raphael leans closer, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and dangerous, barely above a murmur. “Don’t speak of things you know nothing about.”

This is it. This is _finally_ it, the moment where Raphael makes good on the promise he’d made him a few short weeks ago in the loft of the hotel DuMort. It’s so _unfair_ , and the anger flares up again, bright and hot.

“So what, you’re finally going to kill me? Put me in the ground for good this time?”

His grip flexes around Simon’s throat. They’re teetering on the edge of a precipice, and if his heart was still beating, he’d feel the race of his pulse at his throat. Simon doesn’t resist; there’s no point, not with the years Raphael has on him.

Instead, he watches him. His eyes are almost black now as they flicker across Simon’s features, but for all his threats, he doesn’t end it. He’s searching for something, Simon realises, but for what, he doesn’t know.

He must find it though, as eventually the pressure eases, and he draws back his arm, replacing some of the distance between them. Simon can’t get a read on his expression, some indefinable emotion flickering across his features, before it’s gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Raphael takes a breath - and it’s somewhat gratifying to know that even after all these years, he _can_ still react like a human - before his dark eyes find Simon’s again, piercing, holding him in place.

“There’s much you don’t know about what it means to be a vampire.”

Raphael’s features are a blank slate, but his eyes are blazing. His voice is low and dark when he speaks again, with a certainty that belies his apparent youth.

“You’ll understand in time. For your own sake, it'll be sooner rather than later.”

He withdraws further until he pulls back completely, and then he’s gone, reappearing at the edge of the docks, a vague silhouette against the black ocean.

Before Simon can really come to terms with whatever just happened, he’s speaking again, his voice low, barely audible over the sound of the waves.

“No harm will come to your mundane family. We may be what we are, but we aren’t monsters.”

His pointed words don't go unnoticed, but Simon is distracted by the mention of his family. He releases an unnecessary breath in relief, but Raphael raises a hand, turning his head to meet his gaze over his shoulder.

“On the condition that you do not attempt to make contact with the clan or interfere with our business. You are not one of us.”

It’s said with a finality that brooks no argument. He waits until Simon gives a shaky nod before turning back to face the water.

“I can take it from here.”

It’s a clear dismissal, releasing him from their current obligation, and that’s when it hits him. It’s _over_. Banishment, not death, would be the punishment for his crimes – but it’s not as if he’d spent long with his new family of sorts, or any time, really, for it to matter all that much.

He lets out a shallow breath, listens as the air hisses from his lungs, tastes the salt of the ocean on his next inhale.

He turns to leave, but hesitates at the last second, chewing on his lip with blunt, human teeth.

“You know Magnus gave us the run-around, right? We’re on a wild goose chase - there’s nothing here.”

He looks back to Raphael at the docks, but all he can see is the outline of the scar on the side of his face, the hard set of his shoulders, the dark, unreadable light in his eyes.

“Leave.”

He does.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at my [tumblr](http://ejunkiet.tumblr.com)!


End file.
